Apocalypse Meow

The sky was bright (not uncommon for a summer day) as a gaggle of people, most of whom had red hair, bustled and arranged objects for the festivities later that day. With wands drawn, cheery objects levitated to their respective positions, and the only real trouble was that there were too many people in this space at once. Nearby, a half-kneazle with a wild mane of orange fur stalked a gnome who furiously nibbled a green caterpillar. One of the cat's crooked back legs was slightly longer than the other, which gave it the predatory advantage of being able to slink somewhat lower to the ground than normal. Inside the house, a most unruly scene took place: a red-haired groom pinned a shorter fellow, who possessed a similar shade of crimson hair, against a wall.

"I'm serious, George! Where is it?" Bill demanded. The portrait above George showed two children in front of a country cottage. They glanced at the scene beneath them and furtively chased each other out of the frame.

The young man pinned against the wall grimaced and used his free hand to wipe off his face. "You are spitting all over me, Bill." Bill's eye twitched, along with his long ponytail, and George would have laughed at this had he not been in peril. On second thought, he laughed anyway.

Bill's grip tightened, his fingers turning red as they furled around his brother's tie. "George, this is my wedding, and if you are pulling this now, Merlin help me I will..."

"That's it, though! I truly have no idea where your ring might be," George responded. His face screwed up into a sympathetic expression as his eyebrows rose dramatically on his forehead. Bill, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes.

"Is it because Fred has it?" His tone was low and even polite, the kind most people use when discussing the weather. However, George knew that when Bill adopted that voice, he was dangerously serious. Despite this intellect, one of George's main flaws (other than forgetting to floss) was a tendency to laugh in the face of danger.

"Oh, right, he stole your ring while flirting with Verity; it was his top priority, that fox..."

Bill sighed, releasing his brother and sitting down, resting his head in his hands. George stood awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. Sure, pranks and lightening the mood were two things he excelled at, but the concept of comforting people was as foreign to him as a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. Fortunately for his brother, Bill raised his head, absentmindedly stroking one of the many deep scars on his face in thought. Privately, even looking at Bill's face (or the remnants Greyback left of it) made George uncomfortable. However, having Bill threaten him with bodily harm desensitized George quickly.

"Really? Fred and Verity?" Bill wondered aloud, interrupting a rare moment of meditation for George.

George was rather delighted at the prospect of distracting his brother rather than a bungling attempt at consolation. "She is just his date. No woman will ever tame a Weasley twin, you know."

Bill shook his head, the fang earring that he had forgotten to remove earlier jingling slightly. "Will either of you ever settle down?" He met George's eyes.

He pursed his lips in mock contemplation. "No, definitely not." George casually stretched his arm out to rest of the wall. He used his other hand to smooth any wrinkles from his somewhat extravagant dress robes.

"I suppose the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes are doing well enough?" Bill's eyes widened with every glance at his brother's formal wear. Was that real dragon-hide jacket lining? Sure, Bill had boots made out of the same material, but it took months to save up for them...

George smirked. "We try to stay modest," he said as straightened his collar and pockets. He looked up at Bill, and the two shared a sigh. Bill placed his hand on George's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, George, I am just--"

"Freaking out about the fact that you can't find your ring on your wedding day?"

"You were always the more eloquent of the two." Bill groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do you have any clue where it might have got to?"

George reflected on his day, which had not lasted long, considering that he woke up only half an hour ago. He got out of bed, took a shower, Apparated to the Burrow, ate a corned beef sandwich, and then nearly got attacked by Bill. With a frown, George shook his head. As he did this, he felt something rub against his leg. Crookshanks. He absentmindedly kicked him away, muttering, "I can't get orange fur on this, you twit." George looked up at his brother to grin, when he noticed that Bill had gone extremely pale. "What is it?"

Bill did nothing except stare at Crookshanks, who purred loudly. George looked back down, confused, until an idea dawned on him. "You--you don't think?"

All the troubled groom could do was nod.

The duo stared back at the now-dangerous creature playing with George's shoelaces.

***

Voldemort. Umbridge. Snape. Harry had encountered many terrifying people in his lifetime, but none were quite as daunting as the sight opposite him. Mrs. Weasley, a forgotten wooden spoon in hand, approached him with an unhinged sparkle in her stare. Though her dress robes had flowers decorating the sleeves and an obvious soup-like liquid dripped precariously a few inches away from her outfit, Harry briefly entertained the premonition that a tea party with Bellatrix Lestrange might be more pleasant than the certain doom that awaited him at Mrs. Weasley's increasingly mad hands. Pushing past an anxious Bill, who curiously seemed to be stalking Crookshanks, she loomed over Harry somewhat hysterically. Harry cowered in fear as she frantically poked at his head with her wand.

"Oh, Harry," Mrs. Weasley cried, "you can't possibly attend the wedding with your hair like that!" Her voice was shrill, and Harry thought she almost looked on the verge of tears. As she swooped in on Harry for an unexpected hug, he extended his neck to peek at his reflection in a window. While one hand patted Mrs. Weasley's shoulder, the other felt his scalp, reassuring himself that his hair did not look that bad. Sure, it was sort of fluffy near the back, but it was certainly nothing that could have been helped before, and he did not think it mattered that much to her prior to this occasion...

As quick as she was to ambush him with the hug, Mrs. Weasley quickly disengaged herself and started to pace. "I still have to make sure all of the chairs are arranged, and try to coax some fairies into the wreath, and Great Auntie Muriel probably has no idea where she is...I don't have time for this!" she cried, her voice so loud that one of the aforementioned fairies hiding in a corner flew into the attic in terror.

All of a sudden, Mrs. Weasley stopped fluttering anxiously around the kitchen. Her head tilted ominously, she leaned toward Harry in a conspiratorial manner. Gulp. Harry wondered if Bellatrix preferred one sugar cube or two. "My dear," she muttered in false epiphany, "why don't you ask Ginny to fix it?"

With those words, Harry found the idea of a tea party with Bellatrix fairly tame, and would have willingly offered himself to the mercy of Buckbeak, Fluffy, and/or Norbert. "Does she even use glamour charms?" he blurted out, blushing at its meaning.

Yes, Harry Potter found Ginny Weasley quite attractive, and it was for the reason--oh, if he ever told her, she would definitely laugh and possibly mock him, but that wouldn't make it any less true--that he liked her natural beauty. On Ron, freckles were afterthoughts of Quidditch and being outside, but with Ginny, they were charming, sunny, warm.

After a brief reminisce on Ginny's better features (both inside and out), he wanted to beat his head against a wall in the manner of Dobby. Not only did he feel incredibly lame for waxing poetic about her freckles, but he was actively contemplating the one person who was outlawed from his thoughts. Harry still felt something for Ginny, which made his plans much more difficult. The only thing harder than breaking up with her was staying away. He had to keep her safe, though, whether or not the task was difficult.

Mrs. Weasley must have detected his grave looks; she interrupted his thoughts by exclaiming, "Of course Ginny knows glamour charms! Lucky girl, you notice that she doesn't actually need them, do you?" She winked at him, her face bright. Harry felt slightly nauseous, and shot her a very awkward smile. Her features became grim, ominously adding, "Dear, I just think it is not appropriate for your hair to be that...voluminous today."

Harry couldn't help but genuinely grin at Mrs. Weasley's understated description. Taking this as encouragement, she nodded to the opposite side of the room. Ginny wore a pale gold bridesmaid's dress, her hair done in a haphazard knot. She sported a faded apron over the gown, and cautiously attempted to slice tomatoes the Muggle way. Ginny must have not been very good at it, because Harry could tell that she was swearing under her breath. It was at that moment that it occurred to Harry that Ginny Weasley might be the most wonderful person he'd ever known.

Internally, he kicked himself for allowing his thoughts to go that far. His chest monster, on the other hand, was practically doing cartwheels. He did not dare to glance at Ginny after that as he nervously said, "Not to be rude, Mrs. Weasley, but does my hair matter that much? I will only be sitting, after all."

Her eyes began to tear up, and Harry grew alarmed. "Harry James Potter, you are practically a part of this family, and you will not only be sitting. Well, you will, but it will be beside Arthur and me in the front row, and I would hope that--"

Clearly touched, Harry hastily added, "You are under a lot of stress, Mrs. Weasley, and a haircut won't be that big of a deal..." For the second time in their conversation, she crushed him with a hug, and Harry really didn't mind. He would never stop being surprised at how truly kind the Weasleys were, marveling at their readiness to adopt anyone who needed any sort of adoration. Not all people were this lucky; Harry doubted Malfoy was ever the object of this amount of unconditional affection. This struck Harry as the very thing that he would be fighting for, as soon as the festivities of the day were over.

Not for the first time, Mrs. Weasley cut short Harry's bittersweet thoughts. "You are such a good boy," she whispered emotionally, tightening her grip around his neck. Harry momentarily pondered whether he would ever be able to breathe again. He decided that, for better or worse, he could not wait until this wedding was finally over. With a final kiss to Mrs. Weasley's forehead, he began to walk slowly toward Ginny, hoping his hair would not be that difficult to tame. When Harry was with Ginny, the outside world melted away, and at this point, Harry could not let himself forget the troubles that lay ahead.

***

Many myths surround what happens to mortals who witness a veela's cry of anguish. Tales existed of heads exploding, both that of the man's and veela's. Some would promise that if human ears heeded the shriek of a veela, those ears would only ever hear that for the rest of that person's life, which (allegedly) lead many a fellow to suicide. Fortunately for the Weasley household, those legends were either not true or every individual in proximity should have thanked their lucky stars that they were only dealing with a quarter-veela. Nevertheless, as Fleur screeched while fixating on her reflection, the entire British Isles likely sensed that danger was afoot.

"Pourquoi?" Fleur cried, "mes cheveaux!"

Did someone curse her? She anxiously peered around the objects on the vanity--there was nothing out of the ordinary, only a gold brush and comb set, a goblin-made tiara, and a hand mirror. She raked through flaxen strands of hair that were rapidly reaching her ankles. This was not normal, even in a world where the main transportation consisted of broomsticks and dishes could wash themselves.

Thump. Soon after something rather heavily must have dropped, there was another familiar yet slightly higher pitched shriek. "Fleur," Gabrielle whispered breathily, "what happened to your hair?"

At this, Fleur brought her knees to her chest, rocking herself softly. "I--I don't know, Gabrielle." Her sister inched slowly towards her and wrapped her arms around Fleur. Together, they wept.

In the hallway outside of Fleur's room, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were having quite the spectacular row. Her cheeks flushed (which Ron secretly liked), her eyes were bright from fighting (the aforementioned sentiment also applies here), and her hair was quickly coming undone from its sturdy bronze clip (something Ron definitely did not mind). Those facts, along with the detail that Hermione was wearing a dress, and while it was not revealing, it was so much better than layers and layers of robes (a thought that might have crossed his mind, perhaps), distracted Ron from the otherwise serious argument at hand.

"I know it's hard," Hermione reasonably voiced, "but it is for the best if we leave the party a bit early and... unannounced."

Secretly, Ron agreed with her. It would not be wise to declare, "Well, guys, we're off to hunt some horcruxes! See you later!" during the reception. On the other hand, it had been so long since the two last argued, he missed it; having a row with Hermione made things seem normal. When they quarreled, the rest of the world did not exist--no war, no depressed Harry--just a flustered Hermione, challenging herself to supply a more intellectual answer with each retort.

"But it's my family, Hermione," Ron snapped, "what if this is the last time I ever see them and I don't even get to say goodbye?"

Hermione pressed her lips tightly, in an unintentional yet uncanny impression of Professor McGonagall. "I didn't get to say goodbye to my parents either, Ron."

With great sadness, Ron abruptly became silent. He felt very bad about rowing with Hermione in a completely selfish way. Why did he have to bring that up? After all, it was only last night that Hermione had showed up at the Burrow's doorstep, ready for one last rest before embarking on the most terrible of adventures. She had to protect her parents and herself by not telling them that she was leaving, but he doubted that consoled her...

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Ron muttered, "I really am." Heart pounding, he placed his hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him.

"It's nothing. I understand, I really do. Of course you love your family..." she spoke, automatically mimicking his mutter. She rested her own hand over Ron's.

Ron had a rather wild longing to wrap his arms around Hermione. He could do that, bring her closer, and it would be nothing at all to simply rest his head on top of hers after that. It would be a comforting, and (most importantly) friendly gesture, something Hermione might need...

A wailing from the room they were in front of cut short Ron's desire. "Was that a banshee?" Ron asked, regretfully dropping his hand from Hermione's shoulder.

Hermione's brow creased. "I think something happened with Fleur." She looked up at him, her eyes unable to suppress slight mischief at Fleur's expense. "We should probably go check on her."

"Don't go around thinking I don't know that you're secretly happy Fleur might be in trouble, Hermione," Ron hissed as she began to turn the door handle.

Hermione turned around, a small smile playing on her lips. "Double negatives are improper grammar, Ron."

"Oh, someone is hilarious." Ron's retort was disrupted by a swift elbow jab, courtesy of Hermione. Rubbing his stomach, he turned to ask what her problem was when he saw a much bigger crisis at hand. Was it some sort of veela marital ritual for Fleur's hair to sail past the length of her chair, and if so, why was she weeping bitterly?

"Fleur!" Hermione cried, "do you know what caused this?"

Suddenly, Fleur spun in her chair sharply. "If I knew what caused this, do you think I would just be sitting 'ere?" Ron could have sworn that he spotted a glint of red in her eye as she said this. That, or the fact that he was so afraid of Fleur at that moment he hallucinated.

Ron turned to see Hermione's reaction. She stared at Fleur, but her brow was furrowed and her index finger meticulously tapped her lower lip. Ron knew what that meant: the gears of her mind were turning, figuring out a solution. In his opinion, Fleur was quite lucky to have someone as brilliant as Hermione on her side.

Regardless of this, Fleur became more agitated. She quickly stood up, and after pacing for a moment, stormed into the hallway. Ron, Hermione, and Gabrielle huddled in the doorway, anxiously watching her movements.

"Do you think we should go to her?" Ron asked.

"Non," whispered Gabrielle, shaking her head. The trio mutely observed as Fleur alternated between muttering and pulling at her ever-growing hair. Ron saw two shapes ascend the staircase: Harry and Ginny. A battle waged with Ron's emotions: fury at the fact that Harry was alone with his sister and sympathy at whatever wrath they were apt to face.

Sympathy won. When Fleur saw the pair, she began to screech.

"What is it, Fleur?" Harry asked, politely. Once, Ron and Hermione had discussed how very polite Harry's tone was at most times (except for that occasion when he was fifteen and everything was shouted). Every inquiry or statement sounded the same as if he had asked someone at a table to pass the salt.

"What ees eet? What ees eet?" Fleur screeched at the two. They cringed, unconsciously backing into the opposite wall. As Ginny touched Harry's shoulder in fear and/or protection, Hermione caught Ron's eye and smirked slightly. All sympathies aside, Ron tried very hard not to scowl. Ultimately, he failed.

"We'll just... go in here, won't we, Harry?" Ginny replied soothingly. Harry nodded dumbly, fear evident in his features. This would have been comical had it not been sympathetic: despite the fact that Fleur was shorter than Harry, the bloodcurdling presence of the bride-to-be loomed over them like a bird of prey.

After Harry and Ginny scurried into a room, everything sinister melted from Fleur's features. "I scared them away," she murmured weakly. Gabrielle strode from the doorframe to rub her sister's back.

"I--I think I've thought of a solution, Fleur," Hermione said. Though her voice sounded strong, Ron detected a hint of uncertainty. He was somewhat suspicious but did not say anything.

"Do you really?" Fleur gazed at Hermione with large eyes.

"May I try the spell on you?" Hermione asked.

Fleur nodded. Hermione pushed back her sleeves and lifted her wand with resolve. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Finite Incantum."

Nothing happened. Fleur's eyes began to water again.

"I was afraid of this happening," Hermione muttered. "Okay, I will try something else. Reverso Hair!"

Clouds of fog filled the room, and as suddenly as they appeared, they were gone. Fleur's hand was caught mid-air, combing through hair that had now disappeared. She beamed, looking as happy as Ron had ever seen her.

As Fleur opened her mouth to thank her, Hermione shook her head. "It's okay. It was no problem. The two of you should continue getting ready for the wedding. I need Ron to help me with something."

Ron was quite confused, standing in a daze as Fleur and Gabrielle left the hallway, but not without both hugging Hermione. "What do you need?" he asked, turning to look at her.

Hermione did not have to answer. Ron's jaw dropped as he saw curly tendrils of brown hair visibly snaking past her waist. "I am trying to stay calm about this, but," she took a breath and gazed at Ron's shocked features, "I don't know what to do."